


The Ghost of Arthur Morgan

by skybluegh0st



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2019-10-19 16:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17604488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybluegh0st/pseuds/skybluegh0st
Summary: Is there life after death? Arthur Morgan was never one to believe so. Not until he finds himself waking up on the side of a mountain; merely ghost of his former self.Arthur knows he won't be able to truly rest until his soul is passed on, and he's going to figure out what he needs to do, before it's too late.





	1. Departure

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finally got the courage to post something I'm writing online! I'm just writing as I go, so I guess I'll see what exactly I come up with. :')

_**Beaten.** _

Beaten was the only word to describe the current state of Arthur Morgan. Beaten physically to the ground by someone who was once considered a part of the gang he thought so fondly of. Beaten mentally by the very leader of that gang, when he simply walked away from him when he was just moments away from dying. Beaten slowly, painfully, and harshly on the inside by his terrible disease.

Once knocked down to the ground, Arthur couldn’t find the strength to get back up. Every part of his body hurt immensely now, worse than ever before… so he continued to lay down on the cool stone beneath him, each wheezy breath he took growing closer to his last. A dreadful, stabbing feeling surged through his chest when he let out one last cough. The man winced in pain as his breathing grew more and more desperate, clenching his jaw and struggling to keep his eyes open.

Arthur Morgan had died while watching the orange sunrise. His last breath was a peaceful one; his tired, sapphire eyes finally shutting for the last time. His lengthy and treacherous battle with tuberculosis had finally gotten the best of him after all those months of sleepless nights and endless coughing. His terminal illness absolutely changed the way he viewed the world he lived in, and -although he wouldn’t believe it himself- he had truly become an amazing man. If someone were to ask one of Arthur’s acquaintances what memories they had of him, they would simply smile and share all of the favorable moments that they could recall. The closer he grew to death, the more Arthur realized the great satisfaction he got from helping others. From making them smile. The world had truly lost a beautiful, beautiful soul that fateful day.

**...**

The sound of birdsong and cool winds filled the late September air. Leaves rusted in the wind, and couldn’t help but fill Arthur Morgan was a relaxed feeling. Although… he found it odd that he couldn’t hear any other voices; he expected loud arguing from his fellow gang members just like every other morning. Was no one awake yet? The man opened his well-rested eyes, the intense sun shining right on his face. He squinted, and took it upon himself to slowly sit up. He was expecting that awful cough of his to kick in any minute now, as it did every morning, but it never came. Arthur’s chest wasn’t aching like it normally did, and his breathing was the opposite of wheezy. That was when he realized… he was not in camp. He was nowhere near camp. Arthur was sitting on the side of a rocky mountain, overlooking a vastly green forest and a bright turquoise sky.

_ Where the hell was he?  _ More importantly: _ How did he get here?  _ Arthur couldn’t recall anything. Last thing he remembered, he had saved Abigail in Van Horn, right? Sadie was there with him; he could recall riding back to camp with those two women when-

**Micah.**

It was all slowly but surely coming back to Arthur now. When he went to rescue Abigail, that’s when he learned the shocking new about what Micah Bell had done. Even just the thought of that awful name filled him with nothing but resentment, making his eyebrows furrow and his fists clench. 

The more Arthur studied his surroundings, a realization came to mind. Wasn’t this the spot that he’d had that brutal fight with Micah? He didn’t remember too much of what was said, or even what happened for that matter. Although, he _ did  _ remember how Micah had ruthlessly punched and kicked poor Arthur until his strength had given out, and- Dutch. He was there too. He remembered the gang’s leader being there for a short while, but couldn’t for the life of him remember what he had said. Did he even say anything? 

After sitting in quiet thought for a few, long moments, the man had finally come to the conclusion that Dutch… Must have left Arthur to die. Why else would he be here right now if the other decided to help him? The man Arthur considered a father… a man he’d looked up to and trusted for twenty, long years...had left Arthur Morgan to die on the side of a cliff, in the middle of nowhere. Dutch probably assumed that Arthur was going to die sooner than later, so why bother helping him? He was weak, he was sick. He was " _Black Lung",_  after all. 

Arthur felt like he’d hit his breaking point, sitting on the side of that mountain. He was supposed to die here! Dutch, Micah, even John… they all expected Arthur to lose his life that night. A mix of anger and anguish filled his mind, his blue eyes still squinted. He muttered various different swears under his breath, deciding on whatever he was going to do right now. He didn’t even want to know where Dutch and Micah had run off to, but… John, Abigail, Jack… Charles, Sadie? Where were they? He had never been a religious man himself, but God, did he pray that they were safe.

Instead of just waiting on the side of the mountain for death to slowly wash over him, something prompted Arthur to stand up. One he did, he'd find that he felt surprisingly weightless, in a way. Still not feeling any pain or coughing up any blood, he couldn’t help but scratch his head out of pure confusion. What could only be described as a spark of hope warmed Arthur’s insides. The man would be rudely shoved out of this moment of positive thinking when he turned around, though.

_ That’s when he was met with absolute dread. _

There, on the ground, was Arthur Morgan’s lifeless body. Beaten, bruised, scratched… facing up towards the sea of white clouds in the sky. Time came to a screeching halt the moment the outlaw’s eyes saw the body. Arthur didn’t move, say, or do anything for minutes. He was unable to; paralyzed by nothing but fear and absolute shock. How was...no-this couldn’t be- how? Arthur’s mind was racing, yet blank as a sheet of paper at the same exact time.

Realization of the situation dawned upon him merely moments later. Arthur didn’t just temporarily blackout after his long fight with Micah, no. What had happened couldn’t be further from “temporary”. Arthur Morgan was _dead_.

He couldn’t admit the fact of the situation to himself, but he knew exactly what had happened. There was no denying it, and most certainly no way to escape it. Arthur was no longer living; he was merely a ghost of his former self now. He _were_  a ghost, right? As far as he could tell, he definitely wasn’t in any sort of heaven… or hell, for that matter. He looked down, studying his just slightly transparent hands while deep in thought. Arthur never had a satisfactory enough reason to believe in ghosts himself... Sure, he’d had some _odd_ encounters in Bluewater Marsh before, but everything led back to a logical conclusion. But there he stood; dead as a door-nail and as light as air. _A ghost._

 


	2. You Fought Hard

Arthur didn’t know how many days had gone by, but the time since he had died felt like an eternity. The universe didn't let him live, but it wasn't letting his soul die either. Maybe this was Arthur's punishment for the sins he's committed? His own personal hell? 

He spent the rest of his first day on that mountain where he had lost his life, choosing not to carry on much further. The lost soul aimlessly wondered the side of the stony mountain, mumble-singing to himself in an attempt to calm his mind. 

Once night had fallen, it occurred to Arthur that since he were something of a ghost now, sleep wasn’t a need that he required anymore. Still, he’d try, try, and try… hoping for the possibility to drift off into a peaceful slumber, but it never came to him. Under the endless sea of bright stars above, Arthur Morgan felt absolutely alone in the world.

As the apparition of Arthur’s former sat hunched over on the edge of the cliff, the deafening silence around him was soon broken when he could have sworn that he’d heard the faint sound of footsteps. _ Footsteps?  _ No, that couldn’t be. Except for the dim moonlight and the stars in the sky, the area around him was pitch black. Who in their right mind would be climbing up a mountain this late at night? The only explanation for the distant footsteps was Arthur’s imagination, and that was all. Still, that hopeful sound grew closer and closer in his mind, so close that the the man half expected to turn around and see someone creeping towards him. He didn’t want to get his hopes up though; he knew no one would be there. So, the ghost went back up to staring up at the beautiful nighttime sky, slowly falling back into his thoughts.

“A-Arthur…”

_ A voice.  _ A voice  _ saying his name _ . Arthur jumped in the spot where he sat, his eyes widening. If he still had a heartbeat, it would no doubt be pounding. When his head whipped around towards the direction of the voice, he was greeted with a figure standing just feet away from him. Arthur carefully stood up, deciding to silently approach the still figure. As the ghost grew closer, he...instantly knew. Although the light of the dim lantern that illuminated the man’s face helped Arthur to recognize him further, he could still tell with no question.  _ Charles Smith. _ The figure was Charles Smith. 

The spirit’s mind raced and raced with questions, but stood still as he silently observed the other as he loomed over the beaten state of Arthur’s former self. He watched his friend as he carefully kneeled in front of the body, whispering some words that Arthur couldn’t quite make out. He’d never taken Charles as one to get emotional, so it took him by surprise when he saw the way his friend’s breath hitched and the way his body shook.

Arthur felt like he had been stabbed in the chest; the amount of guilt that crashed over him while watching Charles silently cry. He felt, in some way, that this was his own fault. He realized that death would’ve taken him soon enough anyways, but… He hadn’t even gotten the chance to say goodbye to him properly. Unless, that was, he could possibly find a way to communicate with the other. _ God _ , he hoped he could.

“Charles.” Arthur opened his mouth, barely letting out a whisper. He couldn’t manage anything else. After a brief moment of hesitation, he attempted to rest a hand on his heartbroken friend’s shoulder. Arthur felt as if there were some sort of wall between him and Charles Smith; He could hear and see the other perfectly, but Charles didn’t have the slightest clue that the soul of his deceased friend stood just inches behind him.

“...I’ll bury you, Arthur.” Charles spoke softly, setting his lantern down beside Arthur’s beaten-up body.

Charles let out a sorrowful sigh, shutting his watery eyes. The way he kept speaking out loud to Arthur gave him the hope that maybe, just  _ maybe _ , some part of him knew that his friend’s spirit was listening. 

“You… you fought so hard, Arthur. You may have lost the battle this time, but… W-Well, it’s time to rest, my friend.” The grieving man beside him kept mumble-speaking, his voice quivering more and more with every word that was forced out. 

Arthur's ghost tried and tried to push that awful feeling of guilt out of his mind, but it refused to disappear. The voice in Arthur’s head poked and prodded at him, making him all the more miserable.

_ This is your fault, Arthur Morgan. _

_ Your bad decisions resulted in your death.  _

_ You're a pathetic man, Arthur. _

“It’s all m’ fault.” Words that Charles could not hear were spoken from Arthur’s mouth. “If I were good for somethin’, I wouldn’t’ve beat up Downes. That’s how I got TB, y’know. Beatin’ up an innocent man over nothin’ but a few worthless cents.” The ghost didn’t care that his friend wasn’t able to acknowledge him. Something about confessing to Charles made Arthur’s regret ease up, even if were just slightly. 


	3. Consign to Grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for not updating as much as I would like to! My anxiety's been over the roof, along with school and work being crazy as ever. I want to make it a point to work on this story more often though. :)  
> Thanks for understanding!

The clouded, grey sky darkened the state of New Hanover. Raindrops seemed like they wouldn’t stop pouring down from above, but the unfortunate weather didn’t stop Charles Smith from returning to that mountain near Annesburg the following day. He wasn’t going to rest until his deceased friend could.

Arthur had watched the other as he picked up the body of his former self, brushing the silky hair away from his eyes. Curiosity had gotten the better of the ghost as he found himself carefully following behind Charles, wondering if his friend was off to bury his body. He remembered the other man mentioning the subject last night while muttering to himself, if he hadn’t imagined it. This whole goddamn situation felt like nothing short of a nightmare, so Arthur wasn’t putting it against his mind to make these things up. Although… It truly did touch the man’s heart that Charles came all the way back here just for  _ him _ . He came back to make sure that Arthur got a proper burial; that his body wouldn’t just be left to rot away on some cliff out in the middle of nowhere.

Arthur was lead down to the main road to where a small stagecoach sat. A few questions ran through his mind, but he knew there was no way to ask them. So, he simply just continued to observe. He watched as his friend hauled Arthur’s lifeless body into the back of the stagecoach, sighing as he crossed the dead man’s arms over his chest.

“You’ll be sleeping soon enough, Arthur.” Charles says underneath his breath, 

God, how Arthur wished Charles could see him. 

… 

The ghost  sat beside Charles, who drove the stagecoach down the bumpy dirt road. He wasn’t keeping track of how much time had passed, but the two of them had no doubt been sitting there for quite some time. Arthur’s concerned eyes carefully watched the dark-haired man beside him

The past few days, the only thing that occupied Arthur were his thoughts, and God, did he have billions of them. Living thirty-seven long years and not believing in the existence of the spirits of dead people meant that he was far from educated on the subject. The fact that Arthur was now a ghost himself hadn’t even fully set in yet. Would it ever? At least he had the rest of eternity to get used to being  _ dead _ . 

…

Hours upon hours had passed, giving the heavy rain time to finally subside. Arthur Morgan and Charles Smith stood on a nice grassy hillside in the middle of the country, the orange and rose colored sunset shining down on the two. Arthur’s friend sure was determined; there was no doubt about that. He watched as Charles sat down on the spot where he had just buried Arthur’s body, wiping the shiny sweat off his forehead whilst letting out a deep sigh. Arthur’s ghost kneeled down next to the other man, clearing his throat mostly out of habit, he supposed. 

“Thank you, Charles.” He took it upon himself to speak once again, laying his hand on the man’s shoulder. The way Arthur didn’t start coughing every time he spoke, along with the smoothness of his voice; it always caught him off guard. 

He noticed the way Charles shivered as soon as the spirit’s hand made contact with him, which was intriguing. Could… his friend feel the ghost’s hand on his shoulder? The thought of being able to let Charles know that he was there with him made his mind ecstatic. It was clear that the other couldn’t hear him, but-

Arthur’s train of thought was instantly lost when he noticed someone else wandering along the hillside. He was carrying some sort of case in his hands, his head tilted down towards the damp grass. Something about him looked very, very familiar to Arthur. Charles’ mind was understandably elsewhere in the moment, and he definitely wasn’t noticing that there was now someone else on the hillside with the two of them. The stranger, on the other hand, seemed to notice Charles’ presence right away.

The man look up from the ground, opening his mouth to say something. 

Arthur most  _ certainly  _ knew whoever this was...! Although he had to think for a moment or two,  the realization crashed upon him in the matter of seconds.

  
  



	4. A Ghostly Portrait

“Oh, hello!”

It turned out to be none other than Albert Mason, the quirky photographer that Arthur had run into more than once.

Although the tone of his voice was gentle, he still managed to startle Charles. He earned a surprised jump from the other, who was on edge to begin with. Arthur just sat back, watching the scene play out. It was all he  _ could  _ do. 

“I, uh, didn’t mean to disturb you, sir! You see, I’m just a wildlife photographer and I came up here to-”

“You’re not bothering me.” Charles kept his gaze down on the ground, watching the crimson and yellow flowers by Arthur’s new grave blow around in the gentle breeze.  

Albert had noticed the lone grave, but hadn’t quite looked close enough to see the name carved onto the front. Arthur really hadn’t expected to see Albert Mason again, if he were being honest with himself. Last time the two of the met was somewhere near Horseshoe Overlook, a mere two weeks or so before Arthur’s demise. 

_ You should’ve told him you were dying, Arthur Morgan.  _

“Well, I’m…glad I’m not bothering you, mister…”

“Smith. Charles Smith.” He went back to looking down at his friend’s new grave, letting out yet another small sigh. 

Albert nodded, planning to be on his way as soon as possible. He’d just find a different spot to take photos from the beautiful hillside; there was plenty of room to go around, after all. 

“Mister Smith.” He repeated. “Well, I’ll be on my way now. I don’t have any problems finding a different place to ta-” 

That’s when Albert noticed the name carefully carved into that small wooden cross, displayed clearly for the whole world to see. 

_ ‘Blessed are those who hunger, and thirst for righteousness: Arthur Morgan.’ _

Surely, it couldn’t have been the Arthur Morgan he was thinking of. There  _ had _ to be others of the same name in this area, right? Arthur wasn’t some sort of uncommon name. Then again, though… In Albert’s last encounter with the man, he did not seem to be in satisfactory health. He failed to get the image of those weary, red eyes and the darkened purple circles resting underneath them. The sound of that cough; Oh, that horrible, wretched cough. 

“Mister… Mister Morgan?” Albert whispers to nobody but himself. His eyes were widening more and more by each moment that passed, the pitiful feeling in his stomach growing. 

The mention of Arthur’s last name made Charles quickly turn back to the photographer.

“What?” He spoke, his voice now reaching above a whisper. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just… Well, I…  knew a man named Arthur Morgan. Saved my skin many times.” He forced out a shaky laugh, hoping to whatever God above that the grave was for a different Arthur Morgan. 

“You… Did?” Charles raised an eyebrow, now fully facing Albert. 

Arthur’s ghost watched the whole scene play out right in front of his eyes. The way Albert took his hat off as a sign of respect around the grave, the way Charles’ eyes seemed to light up when the photographer told him that he knew Arthur. It felt absolutely unreal.

“Yes, but I hope that it’s a different man by the same name that I’m thinking of. Real fine fellow, that one.” 

Charles nodded his head as a way of telling the other to continue.

“I saw him only a few weeks ago, not too far from this spot. Poor man, he wasn’t well…” Albert cleared his throat, never taking his eyes off the cross-shaped grave. “Every time I ran into him he seemed more and more sick. He had this awful cough, and although he never told me what he had… well, it was obviously pretty bad.” 

The photographer’s words, for Charles, solidified the fact that they  _ were  _ both talking about the same Arthur.

“He… He was sick. Very sick.” He mutters to Albert, fidgeting with his hands. 

Arthur, for now, refused to leave his friend’s side. He once again placed a hand on Charles’ shoulder, his other hand resting on his rusted belt buckle. 

“I’ll miss speaking with him… Mister Morgan sure was a good man.” Albert’s typically cheerful tone was now deluded to a heartbroken, quiet one. If the man were being honest with himself, he had no idea that Albert considered Arthur such a good friend. Oh, how he wished that he would have spoken to him more often. 

“He was. He really was.” Charles spoke with the same tone, making the ghost feel nothing but guilty. What did he feel guilty for, though?  _ Dying?  _ He couldn’t have stopped his fate. At the same time though, he just couldn’t bare watching two former friends of his mourn his life cut short.

The photographer stood silent for several minutes, scratching one of his eyes. _Oh, please don’t cry over somebody like me._

“Mister Smith? I understand if you wouldn’t like me to, but… Well, would you mind if I took a photograph of Arthur’s grave? It’d just be a nice something for me to remember him by.” Albert broke the somber silence with a question that, in a way, surprised Arthur. The concept of somebody wanting to remember a life such as his was so very foreign to him. Charles didn’t seem all that surprised though-in fact- he almost instantly agreed to it. 

His friend nodded understandingly, soon taking a few steps away from the frame. 

“Sure. Go right ahead, I’ll be out of your way.” 

Albert fiddled with his camera, carefully adjusting the lenses and the angle of it. Arthur stayed put sitting in front of his grave; he figured there’d be no real reason to move. Besides, watching the photographer work the large camera was deemed very interesting by him. He’d never really payed attention to how the thing worked, usually the man had been too busy protecting the other from wolves, chasing after some greedy coyotes, and the like. Arthur had been so intrigued, that the bright flash of the photo being taken startled him. Maybe it  _ were  _ a good thing the other two couldn’t see him. 

“Thank you again, Mister Smith.” Albert nodded, taking one last glance at the gravestone just feet away from him. “I suppose I shall be on my way now, though. Besides, it’ll be dark out soon.”

Charles nodded once again, watching as the photographer beside him started to disassemble his camera. 

“Of course. I… I have some things to do as well.”

...

It had happened. Albert Mason had finally gone insane. 

He have _ had _ to, because there was no explanation for what his eyes were seeing. While he delicately pulled the photograph of Arthur’s grave out of the developer, he thought he was just seeing things; but when he kept blinking and blinking, trying to focus his mind on something else… It wouldn’t go away. 

In the photograph, a ghostly-appearing figure sat next to the wooden gravestone. A man. Not just any man though, because he happened to look exactly like  _ Arthur Morgan _ . His light tousled hair, his squinty eyes, the way he sat slightly hunched over. There was no question as to who was pictured in the photograph, because it  _ was _ Arthur. It had to be!

Albert’s mind was racing with tons of other questions, though. Like, how did an image of Arthur get into the photo? Could this be some sort of… “Sign from the grave”, or whatever folk liked to call it?  Or was the photographer merely just seeing things? Grief sure could do strange things to people. 


	5. That City Down in Lemoyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this up sooner, but I've had so much testing this week that I couldn't. :'( Hopefully I'll be able to write more now that the week is done, though! Thanks to everyone who's been so supportive of this little story, it means so much to me. <3

Charles Smith had heard about Mary Linton. He recalled seeing a small photograph of her always resting by Arthur’s various supplies in camp, and was always curious as to who the mysterious dark-haired woman was. He had gotten Arthur to speak of her only a few times; once when his former friend just happened to be under the influence of alcohol, and about two other times while the two of them were riding together through the countryside. He remembered the most recent time he’d talked about his former lover, back when they were camping out at the old Shady Bell house. Arthur said that she was now residing in the city of Saint Denis, at some apartment building in the heart of town… If he were remembering correctly. He’d never  _ really  _ open up about what Mary was to him: The two weren’t sweet on each other, but they in no way hated each other. Had they become friends again? Did she know of Arthur’s poor health…?

…

Arthur had gotten on the train with his living friend. His sad, lost soul didn’t have anything else to do. All he wanted was to make sure that Charles was carrying on okay, and that he wasn’t going to do anything he would end up regretting. 

When Charles had asked the man at the train station for one ticket to Saint Denis, Arthur was nothing but confused. Saint Denis,  _ that _ city down in Lemoyne. When the words “Saint Denis” crossed the man’s mind, the only thing he was reminded of was that dreadful attempt at a bank robbery, better remembered as the nightmarish day that had he lost Hosea and Lenny. Arthur hoped that those two weren’t cursed to spend the rest of their afterlives on this depressing Earth, wandering around whilst looking for any sort of purpose. Not like him.

Arthur had nothing even close to a clue as to what Charles’ motivation to go to Saint Denis was, but he was no doubt extremely curious. He spent those hours on the train beside the other man, looking at the trees that passed the small window he watched out of. The baby blue sky and the yellow sun brightened up the atmosphere around him, but it was only just another reminder that he was still stuck in this world. The thought of being forced to stay here for awhile made him bitter and depressed,but the idea that he might be stuck here  _ forever  _ scared him to no end. 

…

Hours had passed, and it was nearly nightfall now. Arthur Morgan strolled behind Charles, the blinking lights and loud jazz music from the city around him capturing his attention. Everyone there just looked so…  _ happy _ . A group of young ladies outside the saloon giggling and chatting each other up, a man playing his gold trumpet for tips on the corner of the cracked sidewalk, a mother and a father pushing their young child in a stroller as sweet smiles occupied their lively faces. It all felt like a mere show at a theater; the cheerful citizens of Saint Denis as the performers, and poor, _ dead  _ Arthur as the audience. 

His soul had been so intrigued by the life around him that he almost didn’t catch which building Charles stopped at. When he did notice, though-

Arthur remembered going here. He knew what this place was. Unless he were somehow mistaken -or if his memory was failing him- this was the place that… Mary Linton was staying. The time when she asked Arthur to help her out with a situation that her _ ‘oh so wonderful’ _ father got himself into. How could he forget? 

...Charles Smith was going to inform Mary about her ex-fiance’s demise, wasn’t he? Arthur hadn’t told him that Mary sent him a goodbye letter only a few weeks ago. But alas, here Charles was; awkwardly asking the other residents who were leaving the building if a “Mary Linton” was still living here. Arthur couldn’t even recall Charles asking for directions to the place, but he assumed that he had asked some random civilization while the ghost had been distracted by the noise and lights around him. 

“Mary Linton? Hm… Oh, yes! Dark hair and brown eyes, yes?” A woman that Charles had gotten the attention of asked. 

“I believe so. She’s, er, a woman that one of my good friends used to know very well. I remember him telling me that she resided here, does she… still?” 

“Yes, yes. She’s actually just a few doors down from me. Just go to the third floor, and she’s the second door on the left. I’ve spoken to her before, a very sweet girl.”

Just after Charles thanked the kind lady and turned to be on his way, she called out to him once more.

“Wait…! Sir, you’re not by any chance, well… “ She paused for a moment. “...Mary has been venting to me about some former lover of her’s. You don’t have anything to do with…  _ that _ , right? I don’t think she wants to be bothered with it.” 

Arthur winced as the woman finished her sentence. He didn’t know what he was expecting. It seemed that Charles didn’t know what he was expecting either, because the look on his face was somewhat concerning.

“Miss, it’s… none of that. I mean no trouble.” After a pause that lasted longer than it needed to, Charles cleared his throat. “You have a good day now.”  
Arthur watched as his friend entered the apartment building, not moving from where he stood. He wished that he could tell Charles to just let it go, because from the sounds of it, she had no interest in even hearing about whatever happened to Arthur. Mary didn’t deserve this… She hurt enough already, as did Arthur. Seeing his former lover’s face again would somehow break his heart even more than it had been already. He had to stop Charles from bothering her with this _mess_.

His determination to somehow communicate to an unknowing Charles Smith about how much Mary seemed to dislike Arthur got the better of his mind. The man let out an audible sigh as he hurriedly followed his friend into the towering apartment building. 

Charles was already making his way up the creaky old stairs, muttering the same words over and over to himself. 

“Third floor… Second door to the left. Third floor… Second door… To the left.” 

Arthur’s eyes scanned the surrounding area for some sort of way to distract Charles. His mind raced and raced whilst trying to come up with any idea, any way to catch his friend’s attention, when he spotted a crooked painting hanging on the wall. The ghost stood still for a moment, scratching his chin in thought. 

“I apologize for this, Charles… “ Arthur mutters, knowing that what he was about to do would no doubt startle the other. Only a mere second of hesitation occupied his mind before he decided to reach his hand out to the old painting that rested untouched on the wall. The man clenched his jaw as he knocked the painting down, quickly jumping back as it crashed down onto the floor. God, he  _ hoped  _ that this would help Charles get the hint… 

Arthur watched his friend as he let out a quiet, yet startled gasp while planting a shaky hand on his chest. He truly hadn’t meant to scare the other, but it seemed that he didn’t have any other choice. Charles stood in placing catching his breath, mumbling various swears while shaking his head.

While Arthur took a couple of steps towards the other man in some sort of attempt to comfort him, the sound of a door creaking open was heard from behind. It seemed that knocking down the painting didn’t only grab Charles’ attention, but alarmed another curious tenant of the apartment building. 

“Can… I help you?”

Arthur froze at the sound of a woman’s voice behind him. He...knew that voice. He know it very well.  A voice that’s insulted Arthur as much as it whispered loving words in his ear. A soft-spoken, soothing voice. 

_ Mary Linton’s voice.  _

 


	6. (Quick update from the author)

Hello! I realize it's been literal MONTHS of me not touching this account, I am so sorry :'0 I'm not much of a writer, and maybe that's why I nearly forgot that I put the beginning of a story up on here, but I am considering adding onto it again! It sucks that I got the idea to start writing this again AFTER summer has ended, but oh well. If school and work aren't too crazy, I'll definitely be trying to update this story once again. :) Sorry it's been so long, I guess I don't really have a good excuse 😅 Thank you for understanding though!  
-skybluegh0st


	7. Heartsick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, a real update! Again, I'm sorry for the looong abrupt hiatus. :( This chapter was cut short, but I wanted to add at least something to the story. <3

Arthur stared at his former lover, who unknowingly stood just inches away from him. Her chocolate hair was let down out of it’s usual bun, her golden brown eyes blinking in confusion. Looking at Mary Linton again hurt him; there was no denying that. The words on the last letter he had received from her appeared in the back of his mind.

_ ‘There’s a good man within you… “ _

Arthur closed his eyes.

__ _ “...but he is wrestling with a giant.” _

He heard Charles clear his throat before he started to speak to the woman. 

“M’am? Are you by any chance… Mary Linton?” He didn’t say anything more than that. The pure confusion on her face was more apparent now, her eyes studying the painting that had inconveniently “fallen” off the wall. 

“Why, yes..? Who might you be?” Mary’s tone was unsure, yet a dose of kindness was hidden behind all the confusion. Charles scratched the back of his neck whilst letting out a troubled sigh. He looked as if he were at a loss for words-and truthfully- Arthur happened to be as well. What sort of a nightmare was this?

“I understand that we’ve never spoken to each other, but I…well, my name is Charles Smith. I’m a friend of Arthur’s?” Charles spoke his friend’s name in a sorrowful, sad manner. It reminded him that Arthur Morgan was, in fact, not coming back. It reminded him of the very reason he was even standing in this building: To tell Mary Linton that he had lost his life.

“Arthur? Arthur… Morgan?” Her big eyes had widened at the mention of his name, her voice becoming nothing more than a whisper. “Oh, _ sir _ … No, I don’t-I don’t want anything to do with that man anymore. I’ve said my goodbyes, I- “

“Miss, I’m aware that the two of you aren’t… with each other anymore. I’m not here to discuss that. Something had recently happened, and I just wanted to inform you.” 

Arthur did nothing but stand beside the two and anxiously watch. He shifted his eyes back and forth to Charles and Mary every other second, a deep sort of pain settling in his chest.

“E..Excuse me…?” Mary’s tone had somewhat shifted as Arthur’s friend began to explain himself. She was still visibly on edge, but not as defensive as she had gotten before. He watched as she let her shoulders drop, exhaling.

“I-It’s not… good news. It hurts me to even think about it; but I remember Arthur telling me about you, and I just thought you deserved to know.”

“Know _ what _ ?” Mary whispers, her hand brushing strands of dark hair away from her face. 

“Arthur, he-well… There’s no easy way to say this.” Charles slowly shook his head, closing his eyes. “Arthur has recently passed away.” 

The ghost of Arthur nervously glanced at Mary, dreading to witness what her reaction would be.  At first, she didn’t say anything. Her expression was skeptical for the first few seconds after she heard the unfortunate news, but it slowly transformed into a dismayed once when she realized that Charles weren’t kidding.

“N-No…He’s-He can’t-  _ What happened _ ?” Mary placed her hands over her mouth, her worried eyes visibly threatening to water. That horrible guilty feeling returned to Arthur while he stood there, watching his former fiance.

“He wasn’t well…” Charles mutters, offering a sad, yet empathetic look to the other. “...tuberculosis, I believe.”

Arthur couldn’t bare to look at Mary’s shocked face, and he definitely couldn’t even begin to imagine what sort of questions were working through her mind. His eyes observed as Mary sniffled, wiping her wet eyes with the long sleeves of her deep teal dress.

“ _ Tuberculosis _ ?” She questions, “Arthur… but he seemed very well when I last spoke to him. When… Sir, that can’t be true!” 

Denial and disbelief. Trying to deny the fact that her ex-fiance, the outlaw that she wanted nothing to do with, was dead, was nothing close to the reaction Arthur had been expecting. It hurt like hell to watch the poor woman panic, and he couldn't imagine how sick she must've been feeling at that very moment. The man tried to close his eyes, hoping that if he closed them hard enough he would wake up. He'd wake up from this nightmare, and everything would be back to normal. He would be back at camp, his friends would be sitting around the warm fireplace, Pearson would be announcing that dinner was ready to eat. Arthur had just fallen asleep, and as soon as he woke up, this would all fade away. 

It was a damn pretty thought to have at least. A thought that the poor ghost was quickly pulled away from when he heard the faint sound of light crying. It started off light, bit in a matter of mere seconds, Mary Linton began to quietly sob. Shaky inhales of breath, sorrowful exhales following behind. 

" _ Arthur _ …No, he can't be-!" Arthur's mournful ex-lover cried out, a delicate hand being lifted up to wipe away her distressed tears. "Mister Smith- he didn't deserve death. H-He didn't! I… I wanted him to find himself, find a life for… himself-"

"Miss Linton, I… I'm so sorry. I didn't want you to go your lifetime wondering what happened to him, and… well, he'd spoken so highly of you in the past. You deserved to know." Charles had spoken up once again, offering out a comforting hand for the other to hold onto. Mary had seemed to have taken the hand without much hesitation, and all Arthur could do was dream that he was the one comforting her. He wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and assure her that he's going to be okay, that he isn't sick anymore. Although, he supposed that Mary would rather have him sick than  _ dead _ . 

  
  



End file.
